


The Song Of Ares

by Urbenmyth



Series: Tales Beyond The Archives [10]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: God I hope I didn't fuck up anything, Historical, I hope it worked and it didn't just come off as bad writing, I said "gladius" first but then learnt Nope, I tried to replicate a socratic dialouge with the speech
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:28:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27177874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Urbenmyth/pseuds/Urbenmyth
Summary: Compared to Athena, god of wise and just war, Ares was a darker god. The god of rage. The god of brutality.The god of Slaughter.
Series: Tales Beyond The Archives [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1965088
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	The Song Of Ares

**Athens. 204 BC**

“Food? Food for a poor beggar?”

Philocypros had always strived to be a kind-hearted man. Did not the philosophers teach about virtue? What a hypocrite he would be to refuse to help someone this wretched. The man looked looked surprisingly young and healthy for a beggar. It was only when he thanked Philocypros that he realized what had led his life here.

“That accent. A spartan?”  
“Yes. A spartan warrior, at that.”  
“Well! You really must have a tragic story, for a spartan warrior to be begging on the streets of Athens.”  
  
The warrior gave a grim laugh. “A coward is the worst thing a Spartan can be. The indignities I face here are nothing compared to what my people would do if they found me.”  
The warrior cocked his head, as if listening to something distant. The look in his eyes was far away as he spoke. “Would you like to hear my story, philosopher? There aren't many people I can speak to these”  
  
Philocypros had no pressing matters, and wisdom could be gained from the most unlikely of sources. He could humor this beggar, and get a good story out of it at least.   
  
“I was a spartan solider, raised to fight from birth. The stories we tell say that spartans fear no death, that we live for war, that the only dream we have is to die in glorious battle. Perhaps there are soldiers like that... but I didn't know any. Certainly, I was not one of them. In my heart, I feared war. I was terrified of the pain, the violence, the death. I told no-one, of course. Not even myself. I hid it behind bravado and swagger. But I was terrified. Always.”  
  
Philocypros looked up. Somewhere, distantly, he could hear panpipes. Hmm. A strange time for a show, but he didn’t know the way of artists. The beggar returned to his story.  
  
“When the persians came, I was chosen to fight them. An honor, they said. I was terrified, of course. I couldn’t show it, I could never show it, so when their armies headed towards me, blades shining? I charged. And it was only when I was surrounded by blades and arrows and blood and death that I wept. I stood, paralyzed, in the thick of battle. And there, I met Ares.”  
“Ares? The _god_ Ares?”  
“Yes. He was shorted then I expected, less handsome. He was scarred and bloody, dressed in cheap bronze armor. He had three faces- one to scream, one to choke up blood and dust, and one to play his panpipes. And he had so many arms, each with a different sword or spear or bow. I recognized Greek, and Persian. And others that I could not place, from distant lands I will never see. He walked the battlefield, watching as people bled to death, and only I noticed him.”  
  
Philocypros smiled gently. Clearly this was a poor madman, with no wisdom left to give.  
“I do not believe Ares is depicted like that in any myth I have heard”  
  
“Wouldn't know. I haven't read many myths. But I have _seen_ him. It doesn't matter. I looked at the blood and the death, and I fell to my knees, and begged the God Of War to spare me his horror.”  
  
“And what did Ares say to you?” Philocypros asked as one might ask a child. He swore he heard the piping getting closer. What musician plays in the dead of night? It is a time for strange people indeed.  
  
“He said yes. He redirected the arrow that would have pierced my neck to another man, and he let me flee. The Spartans would slay a deserter on sight if I returned home. So I fled here, and that's where you find me.”  
  
Philocypros laughed. “To meet a god! An exciting story, yes, although I do not believe it. Here is your food, and I wish you the best”

“I am sorry, kind stranger. My story is not yet over.”  
  
Philocypros span around. The beggar was stood up now, and it was clear his life had stripped him of none of his soldier's muscle. He held a xiphos. Unlike the rest of his rags, it was pristine and shining. And razor sharp.  
  
“Ares is not a kind god. He did not let me live out of compassion. I still must fight. I am sorry, Philocypros ”  
  
As the soldier hurled himself at Philocypros, the blade tearing the philosopher’s flesh, he opened his mouth as if screaming. But what came out wasn’t a cry of triumph or of guilt.  
  
It was, Philocypros realized in his last moments, the sound of panpipes.


End file.
